Dylan Thomas




It’s Light That Makes the Intervals

It’s light that makes the intervals
Between the pyramids so large,
And shows them fair against the dark,
Light that compels
The yellow bird to show his colour.
Light, not so to me;
Let me change to blue,
Or throw a violet shadow when I will.
Today, if all my senses act,
I’ll make your shape my own,
Grow into your delicate skin,
Feel your woman’s breasts rise up like flowers
And pulse to open
Your wide smile for me.
Challenge my metamorphosis,
And I will break your pacing light.
Mock me,
And see your colour snap,
Glass to my hands endowed with double strength.
But if you break I suffer,
There’ll be my bone to go:
Oh, let me destroy for once,
Rend the bright flesh away,
And twine the limbs around my hands.
I never break but feel the sudden pain,
The ache return.
I’ll have to break in thought again,
Crush your sharp light,
And chip, in silence and in tears,
Your rock of sound.